


Hide your head and drown your sorrow (no tomorrow, no tomorrow)

by brokentoy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Supernatural AU: Croatoan/End'verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-22
Updated: 2012-03-22
Packaged: 2017-11-02 09:06:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/367310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokentoy/pseuds/brokentoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean always has a way of finding him like that. If he was in his right mind Castiel would ask himself why; if it's done on purpose, if it's just a matter of coincidence or not. But Castiel hasn't been in his right mind for a long time, and seeing Dean propped up by the entrance of his room doesn't really put him in the mood for conversation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hide your head and drown your sorrow (no tomorrow, no tomorrow)

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by daggomus-prime's latest comic. Beautiful and sad and with all of the feelings. All of them.

Things have changed. In the back of his mind Castiel knows there was a time when everything was better. Never good, maybe, but better.

 

He remembers how things used to be and from time to time he likes to think that he can still feel a bit of power in the depths of his human body, sleeping and sedated, just waiting to burst out again when the moment is right. Of course that's not his Grace vibrating under the surface of his skin but the drugs giving him a buzz that lasts enough for him to enjoy the memory of his wings, the after-taste of freedom that was never really meant for him to have and yet he still embraced.

 

One pill, two pills, three pills and the magic happens. It lasts a couple of hours to leave him empty in its wake, a mass of naked limbs on a dirty bed, skin cold and clammy.  
  
Dean always has a way of finding him like that. If he was in his right mind Castiel would ask himself why; if it's done on purpose, if it's just a matter of coincidence or not. But Castiel hasn't been in his right mind for a long time, and seeing Dean propped up by the entrance of his room doesn't really put him in the mood for conversation.

 

Years pass and Dean's getting older. The boy Castiel met so long ago, the one he shaped a new skin and body around is nowhere to be seen these days. There's the shell of that man today, a new set of scars tracing paths on his back and Castiel likes to think he knows them all by heart by now. Of course he doesn't, not really, because they don't do this often and every time there's a new discovery to make. A new bridge of scar tissue marring the smooth expense of muscle, an indentation left behind by a stray bullet that just happened to take Dean by surprise. These marks always find Castiel unprepared, but the joy to have Dean around and above him, inside him like Castiel just _knows_ he still belongs, doesn't leave him time to think about it too much.

 

The scars are part of Dean and Castiel loves them. He loves them and welcomes the roughness of scar tissue with his tongue, the shape and taste of everything that ever hurt Dean. It grounds him, brings him back to earth even if all he really wants these days is float above and beyond, playing in the inconsistency of chemical clouds that never were enough to forget his real self but are always there for him like nothing else is anymore.

 

Dean stands and looks at him without really seeing, and Castiel smiles because this is so not funny and he would cry otherwise. The haze of drugs acts like a filter, one Dean seems to be the most affected by even if he never even touched them.  
  
Dean looks and looks and Castiel smiles his little smile in invitation, for he knows what Dean is looking for and he knows that he won't ask for it. He will take it if offered, of course, but the fearless leader never asks and Castiel is okay with it.  
  
He would give everything to Dean, they both know that.

  
And then he smiles again because guess what? _I already did._

 

He rises on the mattress and tries not to think about how light he feels without his wings. They weren't even heavy after all, not on this plane at least, so it doesn't makes sense to think about them as a weight he bears no longer. But then again, not much makes sense these days except what he shares with Dean.

 

He grabs Dean by his shirt, dark and filthy with the remains of his last mission. Blood and dirt stain the cotton and it's funny how Dean never notices anymore. As long as the blood is not infected there's no worry, and they are all living in the dirt on a daily basis by now. It doesn't matter, nothing does except the solid mass of Dean's body being dragged onto his bed. Castiel is not surprised to find Dean hard inside his boxers when he rips open his jeans with deft fingers; they don't shake yet, the first symptoms of withdrawal still a couple of hours away, and he makes fast work of zipper and buttons in a practiced motion.

 

Before, when they still were whole enough to do this with words and tender touches, he would have taken his time. They both would have. He still remembers the way Dean's fingers could bring him to life slowly and surely, like they had forever. Now all that is left are bits and pieces of broken souls and lost graces, and Castiel doesn't waste any time in wishing he could see the true light that shines from within his fearless leader.

  
It's still there, he guesses, but the righteous man as he used to know him has long since gone and there's no chance of him coming back any time soon.

 

So he takes what he can when he can, and Dean is silent and unperturbed as Castiel climbs atop him, straddling him as soon as he has him out of his shirt.

  
New scars and scratches look at him with longing and he wishes he could meet them one by one, but he's not stupid and not high enough, so what he really does is crawl above Dean in a swift, naked move and he slides their erections together, trying to believe it when he thinks this is enough.

 

They don't kiss. They never do these days. Last time Dean kissed him was when the Devil took his brother, tears and snot covering his beautiful face, freckles drowned under a flush that had nothing to do with arousal and all with desperation and a kind of sadness so sweet it broke Castiel's human heart.

 

As far as last kisses go, it was a beautiful one; full of misplaced faith and _please bring him back Cas, please please_ whispered in between tongues and lips and teeth. He couldn't do anything but lie, make promises that everything would be alright and swallow back Dean's cries.

 

He falls over Dean with practiced ease, taking all of him in one go. Dean doesn't even appear surprised by it and Castiel doesn't bother telling him that he prepared himself for the eventuality that his fearless leader would pass by and take him before going back to drink himself unconscious.

  
He fills himself with Dean, Dean who doesn't look at him in the eyes; Dean who takes him by the waist with rough hands and grunts, who starts fucking him with abandon. Dean, who's so much stronger than Castiel now, both immovable and unstoppable force driving inside Castiel's body like this is nothing but routine. Something he knows and does because he enjoys it, yes, but that has lost importance just like life itself lost its meaning.

 

He wonders what it is that keeps Dean together now; it's not his brother anymore and it's not Castiel, both of them dead in the eyes of this man that keeps waking up each morning just waiting for the moment he can put a bullet through the Devil's head. Vengeance is as good a purpose as any, Castiel thinks, and if that's what keeps Dean going then Castiel won't be heard complaining.  
  
The moment Dean goes, Castiel will follow. It's unspoken truth that is never voiced, but it's there nonetheless in the bottom of every bottle of pills, burning in the ashes of the joint Castiel left by the side of the bed.

 

Dean doesn't make a sound and Castiel tries to behave too. He moves up and down, feels the teeth of the zipper of Dean's jeans scraping between his legs every time he descends heavily on Dean's cock, fat and full buried deep inside Castiel's body.

 

He closes his eyes and idly thinks about the smell and taste of it, how he would like to press his lips around its head and swallow it whole; have Dean fuck his mouth with the very same forceful thrusts that have Castiel shivering above him. He wants him deep inside his throat, choking on spit and come and have it take away his voice forever.

  
But Dean rarely allows it anymore. Castiel is not even good enough to suck him off now, just a willing body to pound into before lights out.

 

A soft disappointed moan escapes him when Dean moves and he suddenly feels empty; no Dean inside him is no Dean at all, but it doesn't last long because he finds himself on his side with Dean's hand between his legs working him open a little bit more.

  
He feels Dean's stubble at the base of his neck and almost believes that there's a kiss coming, but it's teeth and not lips that he feels clamping around his flesh and Castiel smiles where Dean can't see him; he will give him anything, yes, but a shattered hope is nothing Dean needs so Castiel swallows up another moan and lets himself be pulled on hands and knees, ass in the air.

 

His head bends back by the pull of Dean's fingers and he's suddenly being fucked again with force born of anger. There's bitterness in each thrust, tainted by Dean's breath stuttering and whimpers and moans dying in his throat. Dean grips Castiel's cock in his hand and jacks him off roughly in time with the movement of his hips, the sound of naked flesh and broken pleasure the only thing around them.

 

Castiel takes it, because that's what he does, and he wills himself away to a time where there was something more akin to affection between the two of them. When they would wake up in a shared bed and go for a kind of lazy morning sex that could be easily mistaken as making love. When, Castiel thinks, Heaven was on earth and being loved by Dean Winchester was the greatest of his blessings.

 

Dean fucks into him twice more and Castiel feels him shudder, Dean's cock swelling and stuffing him full as he comes and shakes inside him, filling him and taking more of Castiel's very soul away.

  
The sound that Dean makes then, unguarded and pained and almost tender while his pleasure is ripped away, has Castiel falling from the edge and he empties himself on the crumpled sheets between them.  
  
There's a mess of come on his chest, belly and bed. There's come cooling down between his legs, too and he falls on his face to regain his breath and hold back a sudden urge to cry.

 

 _Words don't mean shit_ , he thinks in Dean's voice, and he's surprised to find that it's the truth and that Dean's voice inside his head is not as bitter as it could be.

 

Moments pass, and if there was a clock somewhere in the shitty room he would be hearing seconds ticking two times slower than the beating of his swollen heart.  
  
By the time Castiel turns to face the ceiling and lights up the abandoned joint —still faithfully waiting for him, lucky man that he is— Dean is already half dressed and pulling at the laces of his boots.

  
A sudden urge to touch has his hand crawling up Dean's back, but as he feels the muscles seize up Castiel thinks better of it. He doesn't want to make this into something it is not and his hand falls away, ignored.

 

Dean spares a glance at him and maybe, just maybe Castiel feels a spark of recognition buried in the deep green of his eyes, but it's all gone in a second and there's nothing he can do but watch his fearless leader get up leave without a word.

 

Alone and a mess of sweat and come, Castiel tries, really tries not to cry, and to keep himself from breaking down he lies in the dark and mentally takes stock of the pills sitting in his stash.

 

 


End file.
